


Snow Comes Down

by Barkour



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wally is late for a very important date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Comes Down

It snows in Gotham on the fifteenth. A light snow, a garnishing snow, the sort of snow that falls slow and quiet. When it's done, even Gotham's mean streets are briefly kind; then the cars come, the grime comes, the people come, and the snow is mud and then it's gone.

Patrol is later. Now, it snows. Dick steps outside onto the balcony. Gotham Academy's ballroom is flush with light and laughter and the delicate, throaty thrum of Ella Fitzgerald singing to Louis Armstrong. Out on the balcony, Dick's breath is white. He holds his hand out to the snow, but the flakes melt on his fingers. In the warm, yellow light of the ballroom, the snow glimmers. His head is very warm.

It isn't that he wants to patrol, precisely. Rather--

The snow pulls to the side. A sudden breeze blows from the south, sends the flakes into a violent flurry. They dance; they spin; they twist about so that Dick wants to put his hand on the rail and leap over it and go into the city and-- And fly. just fly. Hands on the slicked head of a gargoyle. Elbows bent. Flip off the roof and into the sky, that dark sky over glittering Gotham, and for that single moment before firing a line, float. Float like snow. Just him. just Dick.

Dick stuffs his hands in his suit pockets. He tips his face up, closes his eyes. A snowflake kisses his cheek, then it's gone.

"Hey."

He opens his eyes again. He blinks--snow in his lashes. Then there's a hand at his shoulder, fingers just sweeping the joint, and he turns.

There is snow in Wally's hair, white in the red. His face is red, too, the way it is when he's run a great distance very, very fast, so red his freckles are nearly gone.

"I know I'm really, seriously late," Wally says, "but I came as fast as I could, I swear, I'm pretty sure I broke the sound barrier twice--"

"It's cool," says Dick. His hands are still in his pockets. He smiles easily. "The mission comes first."

"No," Wally says, so quickly he nearly cuts Dick off. His face is still red. "No, it doesn't--"

Dick looks away. "Dude, it's fine. I don't know why you're--"

"It's not fine," Wally insists, "it isn't, I told you I'd be here--"

"But you had to do your job," says Dick. He smiles at Wally. "What, did you think I was going to be out here crying because my date stood me up to save the world?"

Wally's eyelashes drop. They're red like his hair, like his freckles, like his cheeks. Even as he cools down, he's still red; he's still warm. He'd changed into a suit. Black jacket, still rumpled. Probably carried it in a duffle bag. The bow-tie at his throat is lopsided. He didn't bother with a clip-on. Dick's stomach aches.

"I'm pretty sure someone spiked the punch," he says. "You want to help me find out?"

"No," says Wally.

Dick says, "I told you, it's fine."

"It's not fine," Wally says. He looks up then; he looks at Dick. His mouth is set, the corners turned down. "Not to me. I said I'd be here--"

"And you're here," says Dick, but Wally looks away.

This is what Dick knows: if the button on his watch had gone off, he would have left the winter formal without a second thought. The mission always comes first. He'd have called Wally, too, to let him know he didn't have to come after all, but he'd still have gone. Because the mission comes first.

Wally touches his collar; his thumb brushes that uneven bow-tie. It's red with green polka dots and it doesn't go with the shirt or the jacket at all. He looks up again. His jaw is tight.

"But it's our first date, dude," says Wally.

Dick takes his hand out of his pocket. Very carefully, he brushes the snow from Wally's hair. Wally squints and looks up through his lashes, and it's when he's distracted that Dick leans forward and kisses the crooked corner of Wally's mouth. Wally is very still then. Dick's hand in his hair, Dick's breath on his lips. They spiked the punch, Dick thinks of saying again; but nobody spiked the punch.

He pulls back.

Wally says, "I'm sorry," his red mouth flashing.

So Dick kisses him again. Whatever. Irrepressible playfulness, that's his thing. Wally set his fingertips at the base of Dick's throat and tilts his own head. His lips part. Dick leans back.

"I should've been--faster," Wally murmurs. He leans in, meets Dick as Dick moves to shut him up.

The snow is falling faster now. Dick feels it wet against his cheek, wet as Wally slides his fingertips up to rest against Dick's jaw. His palm is warm on Dick's cold cheek. Dick opens his mouth just so, and Wally's breath is so hot on his tongue, his teeth so smooth. Their breath curls white about them, frosting in the air.

Inside, the host for the formal--Dick knows the guy's name but he can't think of it just now, not with Wally sliding his arm around his shoulders, not with Wally so warm and so there--is saying something about wrapping things up.

"Tell me you at least saved the last dance," whispers Wally. He nuzzles the side of Dick's nose.

"I don't know," Dick says. "You think you've got enough time?"

Wally smiles against Dick's cheek. Dick curls his fingers in Wally's hair; he strokes his nails along the curve of Wally's head. The button on the side of his watch is dark and silent.

"Babe," says Wally, "for you, I've got all the time in the world."

Just for that, Dick kisses him again. At least it shuts him up. Wally tips his head, and he cradles Dick's jaw in his long, freckled hands, and Dick's head is light, his feet are light, light as snow, like he's floating, like he's flying.


End file.
